Gale and Peeta: Their Perception
by Awkstiel
Summary: What were Gale and Peeta doing on the morning of the reapings, and what was going throught their minds when Katniss volunteered? This has been written many times before, but this is my first Fanfic. Everyone has to start somehwere, right?


**Hello there! This is my first fanfic, so it will most likely be very short. Actually it's just going to be a couple of one-shots, first Peeta and then Gale. Please review, then I'll know that someone out there cares enough to hit a few buttons on their keyboard! I don't know about the length of this first chapter, so let me know if you think it's too short, too long, or just right. I'm not Goldilocks, so i have no judgement on my own works whatsoever. Review and let me know!**

**with love,**

**First-Timer, aka EmShem21**

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><p>Hunger Games Fanfiction: Gale and Peeta: Their Perception<p>

Chapter 1: Peeta

The morning of the reapings, I wake up early and look out my window with hope. I wonder if I am too late, or if they have come by already. I walk downstairs to my father, who has already put the first loaves of bread in the oven. Although it is a general rule that no one has to work on the day of the reapings, that doesn't seem to apply to my family. In fact, with all of the special meals that will be taking place this afternoon, more people buy bread and pastries today than nearly any other day of the year. Today, though, the fact that I'll have to work on a holiday-of sorts-doesn't bother me. Maybe I'll even be able to work this to my advantage. As I'm thinking this, my father spots me.

"Morning, son. Why up so early? I wasn't planning to have you work until later." My father, a man of little words when he is with so many, has always seemed to be able to speak a bit more with me. He tells me that this is because I remind him of his sister, who died as a child. Apparently I have the same effect on people that she had. Exactly what that effect is, I'm not sure, and I've never really had the heart to ask Dad too much about her. Then I remember what I have come down to ask him about.

"Me? Oh, I was just wondering if the hunters have come by yet with any squirrels. I remember they did last year, and…" My voice trails off at the end, and that sentence doesn't seem like something I would say at all, making me sound a bit obvious. It doesn't matter that much, though, my father learned a long time ago of my crush on Katniss. She's never noticed me, but ever since that first day at school, I can't help but hope.

Even from the bottom of the stairs, I can hear my father's chuckling. "Waiting for the girl, are you? I can't blame you; she seems a lot like her mother. No, she and Gale haven't come around yet. You're welcome to stay down here and wait for them if you'd like, but there's no guarantee they'll come today. You know how inconsistent they are."

I can hear the wistfulness in my father's voice when talks about Katniss' mother. I remember him telling me when I was little how he had fallen in love with her. I doubt he thinks that I remember that, but I do. Maybe it would be best if I didn't. It can be difficult, knowing that your father isn't really in love with your mother. My mother doesn't love him, either, but somehow that seems different.

While I can hear the longing in my father's voice, I can also hear a slight warning when he speaks of Gale, and the emphasis he places on every "they". My unquestionable love for Katniss will always have him as a rival, even if he doesn't realize it, which he probably hasn't. No one knows how I feel about Katniss except for my father and my two older brothers, Yarry and Kurt. If anyone else found out, word would surely get back to Katniss, along with everyone else in district Twelve. Someone from town falling in love with a girl from the seam is a bit of an anomaly, and word would spread quickly.

Of course, I won't have to worry about that until Katniss actually notices that I exist. At the moment, that isn't happening. The only moment that I've ever had her undivided attention was when I tossed her those loaves of bread.

I had seen her wandering around town trying to sell some old baby clothes, and then looking in the empty trash bins. She must have been starving, since her father was the one who supported their family, and he was gone. I had burned the loaves on purpose, and later felt bad about it. It wasn't because I had to take a beating, and it wasn't because I had wasted bread. No, the way my mother had treated me even made me feel proud that I had defied her. The reason I felt guilty was because I was giving her and her starving family burned bread. And only two loaves, at that. It seemed almost like I was slapping her in the face, mocking her, as if I was saying "Here, I have a rich family, so I can afford to throw food at you. Oh, and by the way, I burned it just for you. Enjoy!"

I make myself sick.

Thinking back to the memory of that night, and the pure bafflement and _gratefulness_ on her face, it made me feel terrible, living my pampered life. Sure, sometimes the food was stale, but at least I always had something to eat. Not everyone else could say the same.

The following day, I had tried to work up the nerve to go and talk to her, to explain my actions, to do anything. As I stood alone in the schoolyard before walking home, I tried to catch her eyes, as I had been all day. When I finally did, I was surprised to see the fleeting look of discomfort on her face, as if she knew something that I didn't, before her eyes settled on a dandelion. She picked from the ground gently, and then rushed home with a glint of determination in her eyes.

After that, I guess she started hunting, since she never seemed to be hungry or desperate as she had been that night when I tossed those burned loaves of bread towards her. She even began trading squirrels to my father, who knew how much I loved them. We would sit in silence sharing them sometimes, just enjoying each other's company. We took great pains to make sure that mother never caught us, though, or she would have easily turned us in to the Peacekeepers. I shudder, and just then my father pulls me out of my rather unpleasant thoughts.

"Peeta, I'm losing you. Are you going to work right now? Your little friend seems to be on his way."

I rush to the window before my father's words have truly sunk in._ His_ way? _Rats_, I think as I see I'm-so-wonderful Gale walking down the street, with a hunting bag probably bursting with squirrels. He walks down the street, and is about to go around to the back door like he usually does before I open the front entrance.

"Come on in," I hear myself say. What am I doing? Am I actually being nice to my rival? I guess the thought never really occurred to me before, but being rude or even indifferent to Gale won't get me anywhere, not that I've ever had much of a reason to talk to him. Maybe it's the nerves that I might be chosen, or my sympathy that he might be, but Gale seems like a pretty decent guy. I have to face it; it's more likely that Katniss will choose him even if I do decide to tell her about my feelings for her. If that happens, there's no other person who I'd rather Katniss be with.

I walk upstairs to my room, deciding that I really don't feel like working today after all, only to be called back down again a few minutes later. I look questioningly at my father, who holds up a squirrel in response. I take it from him silently, looking at the perfect shot in the eye. This was definitely shot by Katniss. I mumble a few words of thanks to my father before I turn to the oven to prepare this small treasure. Hopefully after today's reapings, Katniss will still be around to shoot them.

After I eat the squirrel, I sleep until the sun is well in the sky. Sleeping in is quite the luxury for me, since I tend to take the morning shift. Yarry and Kurt tease me about it, saying that I'm just hoping to catch a glimpse of Katniss.

They have no idea how right they are, but I try not to let them know this.

I sit up and yawn, stretching my arms above my head as I do so. It's sure to be a big day, though most of the action-for me, at least-will be taking place in my very own house.

Every year before the reapings start, our little house above the bakery is always chaos. That's the only word that I can think of to describe it. My mother is constantly screaming at us from the stress, even though it technically should be the other way around. My brothers and I are the ones being entered in the reapings, after all, not her. That's why I'm hoping to escape the havoc and get out early to the Town Square, maybe with some chalk to draw on the sidewalk with. It can be easily erased, so the Peacekeepers can't exactly do anything about it.

I cock my head to the side, listening. There is no sound, which means that it must be earlier than I originally thought. Either that or the rest of my family is having a lie-in, which is also probable.

I carefully make my way down the stairs, looking round all the while. When I finally reach the bottom, I make a cursory inspection of the room. I've actually managed to put my "good shoes", as my mother calls them, before the woman in question walks over and places her hands on her hips.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing, young man?"

While most mothers would be able to turn this sentence into a polite inquiry of her son's well-being, _she_ manages to make it an accusation.

"I was planning to get to the reapings early, it always gets so crowded. It's not as if the Town Square can get any bigger, after all-"

She interrupts my modified truth with her harsh words. "In those clothes? I think not. Peeta Mellark, get back into your room and change. For the reapings, you must look presentable, no; more than presentable, you must look elegant. What if you are reaped? Are you prepared to shame your family in front of the entire nation with your lack of style? Before you come back down here I want your hair combed, teeth brushed, and you have to be in that shirt you got on your birthday. I bought it specifically for that purpose…"

My mother keeps talking, but I don't bother to listen to what she has to say. Every year, we have to dress up for the reapings. It's something I hate, especially since none of us here in District Twelve want to attend anyways.

Another thing that she says really gets to me. When she spoke of me being reaped, she didn't say it with sadness or even sympathy. There was no trace of her being upset about the possibility in any way. No, instead she believes that I will embarrass her with my "lack of style". I feel a sudden burning rage towards this woman. She calls herself a mother, when all she has really ever done to benefit any of her children was to give birth to them. After that, she simply sat back and let them do all of her work for her, claiming that she had become too weak to do any work herself. Any work besides baking and eating cookies, that is. She even tells all of the customers who care enough to comment that she is the one who frosts the cakes that are on display on the front of the shop. _As if she could bring beauty of any kind into the world_, I think bitterly to myself.

My mother's voice calls me back from my brooding thoughts. "Peeta Mellark, are you even listening to a word I'm saying?"

"Sorry Mother," I mumble. "I'll go up to my room and get changed now. I would never want to humiliate the Mellark name in any way, especially not for all of Panem."

I turn and begin trudging back up the stairs, glad that the subtleties of irony are lost on my mother. before I reach my room, though, I can still hear my mother muttering about my "laziness and indecency".

A few hours later, I'm standing in the sixteen year old section for the boys. I stand alone, not wanting to have to act like I'm alright on this day, when I'm clearly disturbed. I am every time, though for some reason my troubled feelings seem to mount each year. Mayor Undersee says the same boring speech he does every year, then reads the history of Panem, as he does every year. Then the escort, whose name I forget-you got it, every year- announces that her name is Effie Trinket. She bounces forward, which causes her wig to tremble precariously over her head and face, which has far too much make-up on it. She delivers her standard speech, which always lacks feeling. After all, no escort wants to work with the tributes from District Twelve.

Before you know it, it's time for the girl tribute to be chosen.

_Please not Katniss, please not Katniss, pleasepleasepleasePLEASE not Katniss! _This is all that I have time to think before Effie Trinket pulls the girl's name from the reaping ball. The name that's pulled out isn't Katniss', but I can't think of anyone else who could possibly be worse.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

It's Primrose Everdeen.

Primrose Everdeen.

Prim?

_Prim!_

Knowing what I do about Katniss, it's probably not as surprising for me as it is everyone else when she volunteers. Gale expected it, too. You can tell it from his face, pale yet set with determination. I have no way of knowing, but I think that he might be thinking what I am. Which is that we'd best say our goodbyes while we can, since it isn't very likely that Katniss will end up coming out of that arena. Part of me can't help but wish that Katniss hadn't saved her little sister's life, but the rest of me, the rational side that isn't blinded by love, feels immense guilt. How can I feel resentment in this situation? And who is it even aimed at? I know Katniss has more of a chance of survival than Prim does, that's certain. But even having a chance at winning doesn't mean you'll become the victor. There will be Careers in there, people who have trained their entire life just to get into the Games. Most of them never get out, not alive at least. But if I know Katniss -which I do, even if she doesn't know me- she will not go down easy. Her refusal to be defeated at all is something that has always drawn me to her.

As I'm thinking, I realize that everyone is staring at me expectantly. What happened? Was I talking out loud? Then I realize what has happened. Effie Trinket has called the boy's name, and it's me.

After everything that I've already had to endure at this year's reaping, I just want to start screaming. Instead, I walk up onto the stage in small steps, trying to keep my mind clear of everything that has happened, and the torture that I am about to endure over the next few weeks.

Because whatever happens in that arena, by accident or by design, I know for a fact that I won't be coming out.

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><p><strong>PS. In my author's not above, I said that I send my love. Just for the record, I only send it to those who send positive reviews. Keep that in mind! :)<strong>


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